


Divinity Through Infinity

by Ribbonshalos



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, F/M, Illnesses, Norse Mythology - Freeform, Ragnarok, Slow Build, Starvation, Valkyrie Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 10:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17507270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ribbonshalos/pseuds/Ribbonshalos
Summary: The end of the world has come, to men and gods alike. Unable to run from their fates, the gods take up arms and face death with dignity and nobility. The Valkyrie goddess does not join the final battle, as she is tasked with watching over the last two mortals on earth.





	Divinity Through Infinity

**Author's Note:**

> I have yet to sport a full series with Valkyrie Mercy, and this fic is here to amend that. This AU is based on Norse mythology, specifically the story of Ragnarok. Please note that not everything will be 1:1 to Norse mythology, as I did throw in my own creative details. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

For much of their endless lives, the gods brace for the prophecy weaved by the nimble fingers of the Norns. The three women of supernatural origin sing. Their voices carry fates for all of the nine worlds, and the gods themselves. As mighty as they demonstrate their skills and power, even immortals can succumb to the dusk.

Fiercely, they hold their hearts. They battle and fly and dance without remorse, without hopelessness for the endings in their existence. If mortals can face their demise with dignity, honor and courage, knowing that their lives have only been filled with that, so will the gods do better.

Mercy isn’t afraid. She has never been tolerate of begging or wailing from her chosen warriors. Neither will that come from herself. Her only struggle is silent grief. Loss will not take her, but it will upturn the ground on which she stands.

As every day must end, and a new one begin, Ragnarok soon comes. And it comes ruthlessly.

The world’s demise unveils itself with three, unmoving winters. Winds freeze the air as sunlight fails. Crops die. Animals freeze and fall. There is nothing to eat but scraps and pieces. The mortals become like dogs, bickering over tiny morsels. The shivering snow casts brother against brother, and father against son. Mankind slays themselves.

The gods are can do nothing. No one is powerful enough to stop Ragnarok. Mercy’s work becomes a flood. Battles only grow like a raging fire fueled with dry wood, putting many to death. The stark hatred working through the humans, even as others give up their bodies to starvation, pours poison into the Valkyrie’s mouth.

It is fate’s design that mankind fades as the the winter goes on.

A few of her kin weep for this unstoppable blood lust. Others look on with grim realities setting deep into the gleam of their eyes. The gods do not tremble. They refuse the overwhelming odds and doomed destinies that attempt to shatter their will. They are forged from iron and steel, armed with sword and shield, set against the most impossible enemies.

The third winter ends when two wolves break from their chains in the sky. One devours the sun, one devours the moon. Without light, every last star disappears. The cry of fate settles into the gods’ bones. Still, they rise in their lovely land.

Another wolf breaks free of its chains. Opening its jaw since it was first tied many eons again, hunger sharpens teeth. Its maw reaches to the sky. The wolf’s lower jaw drags across the earth. A feast takes over the very world as fire burns in the beast’s eyes and nostrils.

As the devouring begins, Yggdrasil, the great tree that holds the cosmos together, quakes. Every tree and mountain breaks until it lies upon the ground. From the depths of the sea, a giant serpent frees itself. When it rises, its great weight throws the ocean itself onto land. Poison from the serpent’s fangs, like raindrops, falls into every body of water. The mortals still drink, and the mortals still die.

One of the last cries of the end sets out on a ship. The ship sails, composed of dead men and women fingernails. An exiled god returns, captioning the signal of death. From the sky, fire giants descend after crossing the rainbow bridge. The gods’ enemies bear down upon their opposition. Weapon hold in their large grasps, ready to slay. They shatter their only connection between worlds, the rainbow bridge, as they refuse to let their enemies flee. The giants know, too, that this is the end.

Lastly, Mercy stands with her brothers and sisters when an ominous horn blast echoes into the dying sky. They are not free of anxiety. The knowledge of Ragnarok coming to a climax is not kind, but it is apparent.

Swords are freed. Shields rise to the fight awaiting in the arms of their enemies. The mortals’ prayers has long since died away. There are next to none living. Despite the Norns decrees of who lives and who dies, the gods journey to Vigrid, the battlefield where fate is met.

Wings armored in gold and steel never open. The Valkyrie doesn’t go forth with her brothers and sisters to meet the fire giants. The final battle will not be waged with their kind and foreseeing goddess. Lyrics from the Norns depicted Mercy standing beside a tree, guarding Lif and Lifthrasir.

The tree, left standing despite every opposition digging into its bark, is called the Wood of Hoddmimir. Through every beast and catastrophe, it waits for the last two mortals to climb inside its hallow center.

Here, Mercy waits. Her calling is given, as her intervention can not come upon the last battle in Vigrid. The gods that die there will walk to Valhalla on their own. Her heart becomes heavy. She stands still, as the other gods go out to wage their last war. If she could cut through fate’s weave herself, her sword would have severed every last thread. She would be with her brothers and sisters in their last moments.

But she cannot. Mercy mourns and takes pride in her other purpose.

Disguising herself as a golden swan, she hides far from mortal eyes that could accidentally spy her, but she is able to watch them come. Lif and Lifthrasir. The last man and woman on earth. The mother and father of the next generation. The only mortals destined to survive Ragnarok.

Titling her as their guardian, the goddess ruffled her feathers. Her long, slender neck arches at the metal ring of weapons. Dying cries of gods and giants alike echo through her mind. Her heartbeats floods in grieving sorrow. She has abandoned them in their hour of need. They refused to cower, or run. Brave as her family is, Mercy still controls grief at what news she’ll be delivered when the battle is finished.

Even the gods can succumb to the dusk.

In the distance, two stumbling figures run. The smaller, slender person falls. The other stops, and grabs their hand. Poor souls run blindly and without thought except to keep their lives. Their panicking direction takes them to the tree. The rest of humanity relies on their heartbeats. Mercy lifts her head, following their movements. Lif and Lifthrasir come to the tree as if finding the eye of the storm. The man helps the woman into the split within the bark. He lingers, staring out to the dreaded world, before climbing inside.

Beating her golden wings, the glorious swan flies to the Wood of Hoddmimir. She perches on the edge of the split, looking inside. Sunlight slices the air within. Dry, secure walls keep the man and woman contained. They both stand close but not quite touching. Tears lay on the woman’s cheeks as long, dark hair spills over her shoulders. The man is silent, noticing the golden swan. Wide eyes look up to her, as if contemplating death, or the afterlife. His pale skin is stained in dirt, and sickly in appearance. His black hair is coated in dust with flecks of dry blood. Their clothes are torn. Ribs poke out, even under their tunics.

Empathy swells in her breast at the poor sight. The mortals have endured the end over and over again. Mercy opens one wing, slipping it inside to hang over their heads. Shaking once, twice, golden feathers fall free. The first touches the woman’s hair. Slowly, she lays down before falling into a deep sleep. The second lands on the man’s chest, just over his heart. He breathes out at the golden magic before slumping beside the woman. Side by side, they are taken far away from reality.

It is the only blessing she can give them now. Some relief from the tragedy surrounding them.

Mercy reclaims her original form. The Valkyrie lingers, gazing down at the precious, glowing souls within their rib cage. Despite everything, they are still bright and strong. She steps away with a settled heart.

In one hand, she grips a wooden staff. A belt and sheath carrying a long sword hangs from her hips. Between her armored wings on her back, a small, wooden shield prepares to serve a noble purpose. Her breastplate and colored leather clothing covers skin and bones. A thick braid holds back impossibly long, golden hair from her face. Around her temples, a crown of wings rest.

She is the protector of the last two mortal hearts. As Valkyrie, she chooses the slain. Those who die in battle, and those who will live again. She weaves her own threads. Her voice sings her own fates. The Norms are her equals, but they cannot undo each other. Long ago, she stitched and raised her voice to Lif and Lifthrasir, that they may life long, and noble lives. The end will not touch them, so long as she stands near.

But the enemy of all things good and living tests her sword, shield, and staff.

From the battlefield of Vigrid, a frost giantess marches on towards the Wood of Hoddmimir. A sword of ice and iron wields in one of her hands. Long, stringy hair of black falls down the giantess’s backside. Wool clothing and armor decorate her battle attire. The already cracked and trembling earth shudders under each of her steps.

Mercy places herself in front of the tree. With only her staff in one hand, she calmly regards the towering arrival of an impossible foe. Three times her own height, the frost giantess stops before her. A grin of ambition and a lust for death stains her mouth.

“Leave this place. It is under my guard,” Mercy declares in a steady, echoing voice.

The tip of the ice and iron sword swings through the air to point at the Valkyrie. She doesn’t react.

“You gods know that this is your final night,” her cold, booming voice shakes the air. “Already, we’ve killed your oldest warriors.”

Mercy’s eyelids tremble, but she does not close her eyes. She knows this news would come.

“What pathetic beings rely on mortals for their prayers and worship will perish as easily as they already have.” The frost giantess bares her teeth. “Go on, move aside. I will take the last of you gods’ hopes with Lif’s and Lifthrasir’s bones and blood.”

There is no reason within the giantess’s eyes. Maintaining eye contact, Mercy draws her shield from between the armor that prepares her wings. Although her form is mostly human, her powerful, blue feathered wings gives her the sky as an advantage. Her feet widen, bracing for the fight.

She has already chosen the slain.

The ice giantess strikes first. A blow that rattles the branches of the tree. Meeting her blade with the face of her shield, Mercy’s knees tremble but do not buckle. Her enemy cackles. Mercy shoves aside her weapon. Raising her staff, her wings expand and flap furiously. In the black, ending sky, Mercy dives upon the giantess.

Her staff is strong, and whole. It takes every stab and lunge that the giantess throws. Betraying her size, the giantess is swift. Mercy dances through the air, out of reach from her deadly weapon. She strikes again and again.

Alongside the cries and shouts from Vigrid, the goddess screams. She gives herself to fury and the righteous will burning in between her ribs. The man and woman will not be forsaken. Between the last certain death, and everlasting mortality, is where she stands. Her enemy won’t take one step closer towards the tree.

Their battle wears away to exhaustion and last, powerful but desperate attempts. Flapping wings avoid ice as iron armor takes on the swings of a holy staff. Locked into sword and shield, Mercy finally gives up her staff. She draws it frees from her waist. A cry rises from the depth of her soul as she lifts it.

The shorter, smaller blade when compared to the frost giantess’s weapon appears feeble. Mercy breaks their locked embrace. Beating her wings in a sharp burst forward, her sword pierces through iron into flesh and blood.

The Valkyrie chooses the slain. She does not die on this day. Her victory falls at her feet, along with the frost giantess. The sword stays buried in frozen bones.

Mercy descends to the ground, like a feather. Her feet take her weight, and she almost falls. Bruises only caused by the most powerful decorate her body. Her weakness is not eternal, but it still drags through her limbs and chest. She breathes, returning to her place. In front of the Wood of Hoddmimir, the souls of two mortals glow brightly. Their slumber is undisturbed.

Her chosen live now, free of death. Her heart enforces her divine law. The will of life and death remains at the tips of her fingers.

The staff of her own power comes back into her hands. The goddess falls onto one knee, undefeated but tired. She grips the staff, setting it between any enemy and those she protects. A crown of metallic wings resting upon golden hair stays elevated. Her eyes sweep the land, and wait.

For three days, she doesn’t move. The battle at Vigrid ends. The giants have all been slain. The rainbow bridge is destroyed, save for a small section that serves no real purpose. Every beast that gnashed its fangs has perished at the hands of the remaining gods.

Though she is weak, her center still senses death. It stains the air. Blood floods over her tongue. Tears fall from immortal eyes at what was lost.

The remaining gods return to the rainbow bridge to recover as the entire ground falls. Mercy stays with the mortals. The oceans swallow her up along with the tree. Water doesn’t slip inside its enchanted bark. Protected by every devastating thing, the last man and woman continue to sleep.

Water plays with her rope of hair, still tied with metal and ribbons. The ground emerges, renewed. Among the mud and devastation, seeds grow. The daughter of the last sun appears. A moon, the son of the old, reflects a gentle, half light. Her staff remains upright in between her hands, guarding the tree. This world is the only one they can call their own now. It’s reborn. Mankind’s renewal lies within Lif and Lifthrasir.

As if the shell of a hatching egg, mountains crack and rise. Trees come once more as the water resides. Promises shaped in lakes and ponds give the potential of a future. The stars restore their grace among the darkness.

When the world settles into the stretched and stained mess it lived through, a god approaches Mercy’s still form.

“Mercy,” Gérard speaks. He kneels, and touches her shoulder. “Are you well?”

“Lif and Lifthrasir sleep within the tree.” Mercy closes her eyes for precious seconds. “They are waiting on us.”

“I know.” He should have smiled. The god, adorned in colorful leather, like herself, struggles. Metal rings wrap around his biceps. Weapons, as many as he can carry, hang from his waist and shoulders. But he is weak. This moment alone is all that he allows. “The rest of the gods are recovering on what remains of the rainbow bridge. Some are ready to begin rebuilding, but others are still grieving.”

Her heart slows. There is no foretelling, no amount of precious knowledge, that will lesson this pain.

The gods are not meant to fall, or break. They are endless and undefeatable. Their laughter comes at the threat of death.

But even their lives are not promises.

The god sits beside the goddess. She lets both knees fall to the earth. Her brother lays a hand against her shoulder, both weathered and worn. His sorrow seeps into her bones but it does not stall his telling of the past days. Gérard is a god of war and strategy. He understands defeat but it has never touched him in such a way before.

The gods have lost their eldest and most cherished to Ragnarok.

The god of knighthood and valor, Reinhardt, died as he lived. Honor and glory pumped his heart as he engaged the burning eyes and nostrils of the wolf. He drove against the beast’s endless hunger with crushing blows from his hammer, but it was not without sacrifice. The wolf’s large maw open again, and swallowed the god whole. Brigitte, their beloved goddess and squire of Reinhardt, became enraged. In her earth shattering grief, she charged the wolf with her shield. Honor, passed down from the immortal who trained her, rose within her. The goddess fought to avenge. Prying open the wolf’s mouth with her shield, it held in place long enough for her mace to crush the wolf’s throat.

Tears, like the shedding of blood, fall from the goddess’s eyelashes. This is previous knowledge set into reality. Her wings droop, wishing for an escape. Poor Brigitte. Poor Brigitte, she silently moans.

Gérard continues, somber.

Torbjörn, the god who wielded an unbreakable hammer, fell too. The serpent that rose from the ocean to spit poison into every water was declared his enemy. Raising his hammer, he charged onwards. His fate was met with cursing and wars cries, all against the serpent. The fight ended with the serpent’s head crushed underneath his hammer. There is little victory in this. Poison from the serpent covered the short god as he took nine steps away. He fell to the ground, dead.

Mercy’s sorrow builds, like a wave gathering force to crash upon a humble cottage on the shore. The god was always kind to her. Torbjörn was the first one she knew. He cared for her in her youth.

“Poor Brigitte,” Mercy sobs. There is no one that can take this heavy blow away from her. The goddess has lost her mentor, and her father, in one battle.

Kindly, Gérard pats her hand. His emotions are contained, but they still peek through his irises.

“She will need time,” he murmurs, before determination ignites his brow. “But we won’t let their deaths be in vain.”

The Valkyrie doesn’t stop Gérard from continuing the tale of the gods’ death. She merely wishes the tale were a fantasy.

Ana, the mother goddess, fought an entire army of fire-giants. Of course she did. Mercy and Gérard give a weak laughter at the thought of anyone stopping her. It’s a hollow gesture, however, as Gérard must continue. Both of her eyes were burned out before she fell to her knees. The fire giants claimed her life. Even then, Her efforts stopped half of their army alone, providing a strong resistance to the younger gods.

“Oh, Pharah,” Mercy almost cries out. “Ana is gone…”

“She’s strong. She’ll rise again, just as we all will,” comfort and understanding comes from the god beside her. He’s certain, unwavering despite how crushed their ribs are. Where is her strength now?

Jack and Gabriel, their commanding gods, leaders in their own rights, were swallowed whole by the wolves that ate the sun and moon. It was hardly a battle, it happened so quick. Gérard still tries to comprehend the matter. Swiftly, without hesitation or doubt, Tracer and McCree rose up. Baring their weapons in a cry for their former mentors, their combined efforts cut both beasts into pieces.

Turning slowly, Mercy meets Gérard’s solemn expression.

“I hold no true power,” her voice cracks.

“We both know that isn’t the truth.” Gérard is quick to correct her. “Reinhardt. Torbjörn. Ana. Jack. Gabriel. They all knew there was no evading what was weaved by the Norns themselves. They were brave in their last moments. Your power had to stay with the last of mankind. No one else could have watched over them like you.”

Her gaze falls back to the fresh grass, and budding trees. Just across the slouching hill that the Wood of Hoddmimir stands upon, a giant lake rests. She’ll place swans on its surface, for the mortals to enjoy.

They must continue on, and rebuild in the rebirth. The death of the gods will be given glory by every human tongue. Songs will echo in eternity for their sacrifices. Their souls rest in Valhalla. Her heart burns.

“I must awaken the mortals,” she speaks. The goddess rises. Straightening beside her, the god views her ruffled wings. “And take souls to Valhalla.”

“After you take your time to recover and heal,” he orders.

“Lif and Lifthrasir cannot sleep forever,” she turns sharply back, wondering if he knows of their time within the tree. The golden feathers place them in a static state, keeping them from further hunger or thirst. “This world is still dying to them.”

“They won’t.” He steps beside her. “We must still prepare a house for them, and create schemes to allow them to fall in love. There is no rush you can make that will change that. Mercy, rest.”

Her wings are still. The tree with the last man and woman on earth stands tall, as if never knowing a harsh winter.

“It’s my duty to guard them as well,” his voice reminds of their tasks. From all of the gods and goddess, only they were marked by the Norns as protectors. Their wills and strength is what will defend the last of mankind, and does so now.

A slow nod comes from the Valkyrie. Opening her wings, she turns to the sky.

“Carry them gently, Mercy.”

She gives grace to his hidden grief.

“Of course.”

The gentle daughter of the old sun eases the aches within her wings. As she soars, she comes over where warriors go to fight, and die. The battlefield of Vigrid lies as a garden of bodies and weapons. Giants and gods are scattered around the blood soaked ground. Slain souls wait for judgement. Mercy comes upon those she recognizes, and those that hold no meaning, but once meant everything to someone else.

The strength in her arms are waning but do not fail her now. Gathering souls like a handful of white daisies, the Valkyrie begins her work. Time flees her senses as she makes decisions. Those who belong under the roof of shields made with rafters of spears are guided to the gates. Her wings beat without pause, back and forth. No soul is left without her judgement as she goes through the gods and remaining mortals that still believed in them.

Her duty comes to an end as the sun rises. Tears do not fall, but her heart remembers. The warriors she carried leave invisible tattoos along the inside of her arms. She goes on to the rainbow bridge, or what remains of it. The one god who maintains and guards the bridge is lost to them, taking the gift of travel into his grave.

Many eyes and hands greet her entrance. Her brothers’ and sisters’ sorrow swells like a bowl being tipped into spilling its contents. Taking her hand, Tracer leads her to Brigitte and Pharah. The goddesses weep together, comforted by the accompanying tears.

Mercy kneels, wraps one arm around each shoulder, and joins their grieving. The goddesses bury their cheeks against their sister. Others proclaim the fallen gods’ honor in facing death, and nobility in fighting until the end. A few curses ring out towards the Norns.

Their tears are finally spent. Mercy’s rest is urged on by the other gods. They know of her battle with the frost giantess. Lasting hope lies in the mortals giving them prayers, and allowing the gods to continue on. She was the only one to truly protect the last of mankind.

McCree asks of Lif and Lifthrasir. Every god falls silent to listen closely. Mercy give good news. They sleep now in the tree, waiting for them to prepare a way.

She leaves the rainbow bridge to reside by the new ocean. On the shore, Mercy cleans away frostbite and dirt from her wings. Gently, she treat her armor and clothes until they are made beautiful again. Her hair, white gold that fall to her knees, unravels from the many ropes and braids. In the water, her heavy soul floats. It soothes the goddess to scrub her skin and hair. She hums a tuneless song, too tired to cry again.

Her thoughts drift to the man and woman that still sleep. They don’t know who they are, or what the gods call them, but they are as the sun and moon itself. The simple existence of their breaths gives light to the immortals.

The shore becomes her bed. She sleeps for a day and night. When dawn dusts her skin and hair, the Valkyrie rises. She pulls on her clothes and armor. Jewelry, from her crown of wings, to rings and belts, routinely fall back onto her waist, arms and fingers.

Breathing in, the air of sadness sticks to her lungs. The oldest gods are gone, but it feels impossible. As if she’ll find them on the rainbow bridge returning from a glorious battle, mingling with the rest of her family.

She can’t linger on her own sorrow now. The man and woman wait on her. Gérard waits on her. His word was of preparing them a home and means of sustenance. The time of recovering has gone on for far too long.

Her wings beat with vigor. Darting across the bright new, blue sky, the goddess welcomes the destination of her role. It is not light work. Her and Gérard’s task remains to keep the mortals alive. Their hands must be invisible while pushing them together in loving matrimony, so that their offspring may repopulate the earth.

It is without fear, as the Norns decreed them to be the mother and father of all mortals.

Landing in front of the Wood of Hoddmimir, Mercy finds a wooden, humble house already dotting the landscape. Its walls lie close to the lake. At the Valkyrie’s appearance, Gérard steps away from the house. His speed is with purpose as he comes to her side. Stilling, they both face the tree.

“Did Brigitte feel well enough to build?” Mercy asks, glancing to the god.

“Yes. She welcomed something to do with her hands.” Gérard’s gaze moves up and down the tree. A deep, readying breath leaves his throat.

“Mercy,” he says in invitation. She’s already stepping forward.

“Let’s wake them.”

Together, the god and goddess widen the split within the bark. Opening the entrance, the hollow center shelters two, sleeping humans. The man and woman are sprawled across the ground, close together. They breathe peacefully. Mercy kneels, and lifts the golden feathers from the man’s chest, and the woman’s hair. Taking them in her hands, she makes a fist. When her palms open, nothing remains.

Blinking slowly, the man enters consciousness first. Light brown colored eyes, the shade of sepia, fall to the god and goddess. Emitting a calm demeanor, Mercy holds out her hand.

“Don’t be afraid,” her voice is soft as the woman’s eyes open. The mortals slowly sit up. On reflex, the woman scoots closer to the man. Wide eyes flicker between herself and Gérard, wary from the months of hardship they’ve endured.

“It’s alright,” Gérard speaks up. “We have food and shelter for you.”

Lif, the man, as the gods know his name to be, studies Mercy’s outstretched fingers. Behind her shoulders, armored, blue dipped wings catch his gaze. A quiet gasp leaves him before he flickers back to Mercy’s face. His black hair, cut short in a strange fashion from her view, spikes upwards. Skinny bones plague him from a prolong year of famine, but he does not shake when he stands. The woman slowly gets to her feet beside him. Long, dark hair spills over her shoulders as intense, gold eyes regard the gods.

The mortal man holds Mercy’s gaze, awestruck and wary all at once. Her patience is firm. Her hand still waits in offering, kind fingers loose.

His soul makes a decision. The man steps towards her, almost stumbling. He touches her hand.

His grip is lacking in mass but in no less of presence. She wraps her fingers gently around his palm. Tugging him carefully forward, Mercy guides him from out of the tree. She dares not touch him too much. Human minds are both fragile and powerful, and this is all new and terrifying.

Her arm still hovers around his backside as she murmurs softly. The sun blinds the man who has only known gray blizzards. Lifting his arm as a shield from the light, a whispers slips from his cracked lips.

Behind her, Gérard half carries the woman from the Wood of Hoddmimir. He supports her with one arm around her lower back, and the other gently taking her wrist. Stunned by the light, she scrunches her face. Gérard apologies quietly as he turns, using his tall height as a shielding shadow for the mortal.

“Has the world ended?” The man’s voice rumbles like a river, clean and strong. He looks to Mercy, appropriately wondering if it’s his time to go to Valhalla.

“No. Ragnarok has ended.” Mercy’s calmness seems to reassure him of this. “What do you call yourself?”

He breathes slowly. Unbelieving eyes drink in her image, flickering repeatedly to her wings. Their hands still grip each other’s tightly. He looks down to their clasp fingers.

“Genji,” he murmurs on a dry tongue. “I am Genji.”

She silently tastes his name on her lips.

Gently, as if handling a fragile jewel, Gérard asks the same of the woman.

“My name is Amélie,” she whispers. Her weak voice cracks as her weight still leans into Gérard’s support. When the mortals looks up to him, his stance becomes slightly more protective.

“A beautiful name,” the god says, kindly. “My name is Gérard, the god of warfare and strategy.”

“Genji,” Mercy speaks softly. His sepia eyes lift to hold her own. “I am Mercy, the Valkyrie Goddess. We will be watching over you.”


End file.
